


Whatever is Left of Me

by icey_cold



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icey_cold/pseuds/icey_cold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme: After losing a bet, Blackwall is forced to shave off his beard.  The Lady Inquisitor assists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever is Left of Me

_“And that’s that, innit?  You gotta shave it off.  You gotta get rid of it.  The broody-beard.”_

Sera’s sing-song trills of joy followed the Inquisitor out of the tavern and into the snow.  Lights were burning in Skyhold Proper, one of which, she guessed, belonged to a certain black-bearded Grey Warden as he contemplated his fate in a mirror.

He’d taken it very well, at first.  He’d lost the hand and upped the stakes, and he was willing to pay whatever price Sera had in mind.  The older Warden and the upstart elfling had a strange friendship, drawn together, perhaps, out of their mutual distaste for the nobility and the power struggles of the world. 

“Commoners like us,” Blackwall had once said while deep in his cups, Sera cackling across from as she counted gold and silver pieces with nimble fingers, “need t’stick together, and _fuck_ the nobility.”  When Blackwall had realized what he’d said – and who had been listening (the Inquisitor, from the door way, with a surprised expression on her face) – he had blanched and tried to stammer an apology.

And Sera tugged mercilessly at his beard, her peal of giggles never faltering.  “OOOOOOH, she ain’t never gonna _do it with you now."_   

The Inquisitor contemplated the many windows and the many small candles glittering through them.   Losing a horrific game of cards to Sera was really not the greatest of tragedies for Blackwall, as far as the Inquisitor was concerned.   And yet, there had been something about his face…

Hunted.

No.

_Haunted._

She chose her steps carefully in the dark.   Her thick boots left snowy prints on the Keep’s carpets.  There was nothing to do about it.  She wandered down the corridors of the guest wing, where her Inner Circle was provided quarters.  Most made use of the accommodations, but some (like Sera) preferred their lodgings as far away as possible.  Blackwall came back to his room each night to sleep, but didn’t linger overly long in his chambers.  This the Inquisitor knew from experience.  She’d spent many a wasted minute politely knocking on his door, only to be told by a passing servant that, “Master Grey Warden Blackwall is attending to the horses in the stables, Your Grace,” or, “Warden Blackwall is assisting Cullen in a training skirmish,” or any other excuse that placed Blackwall squarely out of his chambers.

But not tonight. 

The Inquisitor halted in front of the Grey Warden’s door.  It was shut.  She lifted a hand to knock, then lowered it again.  Maybe this was something she shouldn’t intrude on.   That pain in his eyes had come and gone so quickly.  He was intensely private.  Trying to get Blackwall to talk about anything specific about his background or his role in the Grey Wardens was a difficult endeavor.   At first, the Inquisitor had thought maybe he was playing hard to get.  By the subtle compliments he paid to her, it was as good an answer as any.  But as the compliments grew bolder, and the need for hard-to-get faded away, the conversation became sparser.   It was curious.

The sound of something clinking inside and the rush of water caught the Inquisitor’s attention.  She knocked.  She had to make sure he was all right.

“Who’s there?” groused a rough voice from behind the door, half-muffled by more than just wood.  “Not Sera come to gloat, have you?”

“Definitely not Sera,” responded the Inquisitor.  “And definitely not someone come to gloat.”

“Ah…err…eh… just a moment.”

Behind the door was the quick creaking of footsteps on wooden floors and a heavy rustling of fabric.  This gave way to the soundless opening of the door to reveal Blackwall in his breaches and a heavy jacket, with his hair and beard still damp.  In addition to his clothes, he was wearing a chagrin expression, as if embarrassed that she should come to him now.

“Are you going to invite me in?” pressed the Inquisitor gently.  She flashed him a rueful smile. 

“It’s your castle, right?  You don’t need my permission to enter.”  Blackwall stepped out of the door frame, and the Inquisitor stepped in.  Her feet took her over to the basin of water and the shaving accoutrements on the dressing table.   “Just preparing for the inevitable,” he explained, noticing what the Inquisitor was looking at.

“If you don’t want to do it,” the Inquisitor said gently, “I can talk to Sera.  I’m sure she can find a new punishment for you – or me.  Or even both of us, if that’s what it takes to save your beard.”  She plucked up the straight razor and examined the edge.  It looked sharp.  It probably didn’t see much use.  It looked almost new and expensive – far too expensive for a Grey Warden.   The handle bore some Orlesian style filigree.  Perhaps it was a gift, or belonged to him from before he was a Grey Warden.

“No,” replied Blackwall as he approached her.  He wrapped a warm hand around hers, and gently plucked the razor from her fingers with his free hand and set it back down on the dresser.   “I gambled and lost; I… need to own up to my mistakes when I make them.”  His hand lingered over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing it. 

“If it is any consolation,” the Inquisitor turned on her toes and caught the Warden’s chin as he turned his face from her, “I think you’ll look just as handsome without the beard.”  Her thumb traced the jut of his chin and jaw.  A beard did wonders to disguise a weak chin and small jaw.  But Blackwall’s chin was strong, and his jaw line sharp.  Whatever profile lurked underneath that coarse hair, it would not disappoint, the Inquisitor was certain of it.

Her face lingered next to his for several moments.  The last time they were alone and this close together was at the Winter Palace.  He’d gently pressed her against his chest as they’d waltzed together on a private balcony to the last song of the evening.  He had danced in another life; perhaps he’d been beardless then, too.   But ever since that night not more than a handful of weeks ago, they’d had little time to themselves.   Their first and only kiss had occurred in that hurried time frame – a surprised, but not unwelcome, press of their lips while they were mucking out the stables. 

 “You think I keep the beard for vanity?”  The Warden lifted a thick eyebrow and the Inquisitor was drawn out of her thoughts by the levity in his voice.  He was amused, as evidenced by the sudden pull of his lips into a surprised smile.  “More like laziness.  You ever tried to stay clean shaven in the wild?”

The Inquisitor blinked at him.  She then mimed stroking her chin.  “I have.  It is simply dreadful.” 

They shared a wry chuckle at the image.  Though by the way Blackwall was suddenly looking out the window with great interest, his laughter now nothing more than a light vibration deep in his throat, he had perhaps migrated to a part of the Inquisitor’s anatomy just as shapely as her chin, and better suited to growing hair.  Sera’s words were ringing in the Inquisitor’s ears, “bet she’s got a beard. _Places._ ”

Places indeed.

Clearing her throat, the Inquisitor turned back to the shaving kit.  “I notice you don’t have a mirror,” she murmured.  “Oversight?”

“I have one in my pack.  Just… was getting it ready.  Didn’t want to look at the terrain just yet.”  Blackwall sighed.  “It’ll take me all damn night to shave this thing off.”

“I don’t know about that.”  Turning once more to Blackwall, the Inquisitor settled herself on the dresser next to the trimmers, razor, soap, and oil.  “We can trim it down; do several passes to get rid of the hair…”  She titled her head to one side, considering the courses of action before her.  “Shouldn’t take more than an hour, maybe two, if you’re fussy.”

“Fussy?”  Again Blackwall lifted an eyebrow.  “And since when did you know so much about shaving men’s beards?’”

Chuckling, the Inquisitor explained with a casual wave of her hand, “I have three older brothers and a father in good health.  I’ve learned a fair bit about the proper way to shave.  Shall I,” she paused for dramatic effect, “show you?” 

There must have been a challenge in her voice, or something in the light that made her eyes sparkle _just so_ , because the Inquisitor had not expected Blackwall to rumble out a, “if you think you’re up for the challenge, yes.”

“I am always ready for a challenge,” declared the Inquisitor.   She carefully plucked at the jacket Blackwall was wearing.  It was the same one he wore over his armor, although this time, there was no armor beneath it.  It had been haphazardly toggled together, and the Inquisitor, ever so meticulous as she was, ran her fingers over the edges of his coat and asked gently, “Are you going to remove this?  I don’t want to get hair and oil over your nice things.”

“Don’t see how you could call this nice.”  Blackwall reluctantly shrugged out of the padded jacket, scarred fingers working on the fasteners.  “It’s probably seen more winters than you, come to think of it.”

“Well, if I look half so nice and warm when I’m in my advanced age, I’ll be thankful for it,” the Inquisitor shot right back.   She glanced at Blackwall’s half-naked physique from the corner of her eye before she set about preparing for the task at hand.  “Do you have a chair?” she murmured, “or must I do this standing up?”

The scrape of wood against wood was her answer, along with Blackwall’s weary groan as he settled himself on whatever he’d dragged over. 

“First things first,” the Inquisitor stepped around Blackwall and settled her hands on his broad shoulders.  He was broad-backed and strong-armed, and coated in a dusting of dark hair that trailed from his shoulders all the way down to his knuckles, and spread across his chest invitingly.  The Inquisitor bit the inside of her cheek: he was muscled, scarred, and gentle under her fingertips.  “Let’s get your hair out of the way.”  She swept her fingers up the column of his neck and over his cheeks, and threaded her fingertips into the hair at his temple.  She gently combed his thick hair out of his face, and was rewarded with a satisfied invective. 

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall whispered, “you could knock a man out doing that.”

 “Perhaps I’ll do that next time I’m in battle,” replied the Inquisitor with a gentle teasing tone, continuing to gently comb her fingers through his hair until there were no tangles she could feel.  She had a spare ribbon tying her own hair back, bright blue and not unlike the color of Blackwall’s eyes, and this she used to keep his hair at bay.  “Or if you have trouble sleeping.  I’ve heard that Grey Wardens sometimes have… dreams.”

Blackwall’s shoulders tensed.  “They do,” he said after a moment, before heaving a heavy sigh.  He relaxed again at the press of the Inquisitor’s arm around his chest as she leaned in for a quick embrace.

“It isn’t too late for me to talk to Sera.”

A war-worn hand came up and lightly wrapped around her forearm, holding her in place.  “No,” he said, and again repeated his earlier words, “I need to own up to my mistakes when I make them.”  He rubbed her forearm with his palm.  “And I won’t see you take the fall for me.”

“I doubt there’s very much Sera could force me to do that would cause me too much anxiety.”

“What if she asked you to shave your head?”

“Oh.”  The Inquisitor thought of that.  It didn’t help that Blackwall’s other hand had reached over his shoulder and was now curled into the hair at the back of her head.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Maker, that would be a tragedy,” Blackwall murmured, his fingertips massaging her scalp.

“Hair grows back,” replied the Inquisitor, gently leaning into his touch.  “As do beards,” she reminded him.   She couldn’t stop the wave of warm drowsiness that overcame her, or the tingling sensation at the base of her skull that travelled all the way down her shoulders and spine at the touch.  “Ah… if you keep doing that, I’ll fall straight asleep.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”  It was Blackwall’s turn to comment on sleeping habits, “maybe it’ll work when _you_ have trouble sleeping.”

“Maybe,” the Inquisitor evaded, slowly trying to extricate herself away from his soothing touch.  “Ah… no, you have to stop,” she laughed against the crown of his head as his fingers wandered deeper into her hair.  The sweet, relaxing torture lasted only a few moments longer as Blackwall, ever so solicitous of her requests, slipped his hand from her hair. 

The atmosphere in the room had become far more relaxed than when she first entered, and the Inquisitor took this as a sign that she was free to proceed.   She withdrew from Blackwall, letting her hand glide over the warm expanse of his chest and his shoulder as she did so.  Her fingertip caught on the edge of a jagged scar at the tip of a shoulder, and she gently smoothed over it, as if by the gesture she could erase the scar and the memory that went with it. 

Blackwall waited patiently as she gathered up the spare towel and draped this around his chest and legs to catch the steady fall of hair.  His beard was still damp as she took the trimmers and a small comb to it, cutting as close to his skin as she could, and as evenly as she could, so that by the time she was forced to use the razor, the process would be quick.  But truth be told, Blackwall had _a lot_ of beard.  And the true labor was in the trimming.  Using the edge of the comb and the tips of her fingers, she gently moved his head left, up, and right as it pleased her. 

Every once in a while, she would dart a glance to the Grey Warden’s eyes, and each time she found them transfixed on her face.   For as long as the Inquisitor could remember, he had always looked at her with the same expression.  She didn’t quite know what to call it.  But it was a soft expression, a lovely one coming from a man as strong and worn as Blackwall.  He hadn’t worn it upon their first encounter: he was suspicious then, and eyed her with the same hardness he did an adversary.  But once she’d gotten him alone to talk, to assess who he was and how he would help the Inquisition, he’d started looking at her _like that._

She was reminded at once of her elder brother in the Great Chantry at Ostwick singing hymns.  He was a brother there, promised before she was even born (surprise that she was), and she could recall him looking at the statue of Andraste with a similar sort of expression.  Perhaps it was reverence. 

Perhaps it was… love?

“Up,” the Inquisitor murmured, ducking her face in to get a better view of her work.  Her back and arms were aching and she sighed as she hunched forward to inspect not only the hair that remained, but also the profile that she had revealed. 

“Here,” Blackwall lifted the edge of the towel on one of his knees and gently patted the space he had revealed.  “It might be easier if you were a bit lower for this.”

Examining the hair that remained along the column of his throat, she was inclined to agree.  “Don’t tell anyone I didn’t sit with my legs crossed.”  The Inquisitor flashed the Warden a smile, and he laughed at her joke.

“I won’t tell anyone, my lady, I promise.”

She settled herself on his knee, sitting astride his thigh.  It was curiously intimate, and as she balanced herself, Blackwall’s hands gently enveloped her waist for support.  She was free to twist and bend as needed to complete her task, and he would keep her steady.   Even through the thick fabric of her shirt, she could feel the heat of his hands against her sides.  “You are very warm,” she commented as she snipped the last of the heavy beard away.  She ran the back of the comb against his jaw line.  It was as strong as she thought, and she could already see that he sported a dimple in the center of his chin.  “And,” she added before he could reply, “remarkably handsome below your beard.  Are you sure you didn’t grow it out to thwart lady Grey Wardens?”

“Positive,” he replied.  The one word came from low in his throat.  His hands were reluctant to let her stand, lingering along the curve of her waist even as she grasped the towel containing what was left of Blackwall’s beard and let it fall to the floor.  She swept her hands over his chest to remove any lingering hair, trying to make the touch as impersonal as she could and failing when her fingertips found yet another scar.  And this she plucked at and sighed to, before his hands were upon hers and pressing them flat against his chest.

“All that sighing for my poor chest?”  A wondrous, bemused expression fell across his face. 

“Life should have been better for you,” the Inquisitor said bitterly, suddenly feeling very stupid and very young once the words had passed her lips.  “I want to make it better for you.”  He really was covered in scars.  A lot of scars – badly healed scars, well-healed scars, and scars that had once healed but were reopened again. 

“You are, my lady.  Day by day, little by little.”  Blackwall slid his hands up over her hands, over her forearms, and then up to her shoulders.  A gentle tug down and she was sitting astride his thigh once more, the shaving tools forgotten behind her.  “More than I ever thought possible.”   His hands went to her waist, and were a less than respectable distance away from her bust.  Still, he made no overt move to touch her, beyond what he was already doing.  “More than I probably deserve.”

“Why do you say that?”  The Inquisitor was utterly baffled by the constant self-depreciation.  It had started from the moment they met.  He would never be The Man Thedas Needed.  “Who told you all of these things?  And where are they, so I can - ” 

Blackwall’s laugh rumbled out of his chest and he shook his head.  His bottom lip was remarkably full once it wasn’t obscured by the beard.  And there was even a scar that tugged at the corner of his lip, which had once been hidden by the cascade of his mustache.   “I didn’t mean to get you all riled up, my lady,” he soothed, still chuckling.  Her legs were jiggling and she was practically bouncing on his thigh in frustration. 

“Well, you did.”  The Inquisitor settled at the gentle press of his hands.  “But I truly wish you wouldn’t think so poorly of yourself.  You know I think highly of you.”

“And that should be all that matters to me?” he questioned.

“For the present?  Yes.”

Blackwall said nothing at that, and simply gave a reticent shrug of his shoulders. 

The mood had gone somber.  With nothing left now but to scrape away the remaining hair, the Inquisitor returned again to the shaving.  She draped another towel around Blackwall’s chest, this time to catch the oil and residue should it fall.  And with that, she had nothing left to do but to empty the small vial of oil into her hands and gently spread it across Blackwall’s face.  She stood behind him at first, smearing the oil over his cheeks and throat, his head resting softly against her belly, before she sat once again on his knee and rubbed the oil on the skin over his lips.  Satisfied with the appropriate barrier, she stood, and reached for the final tool.

The Grey Warden was completely placid as she pressed the razor against his throat.  He let her cradle his head against her body for support, but as she moved up his neck and towards his cheek, the Inquisitor felt the slow tug of muscle.  She stopped – it caught her by surprise.  Surely Blackwall wasn’t leaning in to the razor?

“Blackwall?” she questioned, her thumb stroking the tip of his chin.  She leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze as she stared down at him.  But Blackwall wasn’t looking at her.  He was looking at the closed door.  “Blackwall?” she asked again.

“Hmm?”  He dragged hazy blue eyes to her face. 

“Stay still,” the Inquisitor said, though not unkindly.  “I can control the razor, but if you - ”

“I know,” he interrupted, and said no more.

The room was filled with the sound of gentle scraping, and then the Inquisitor’s quiet humming.  It was a tune from the tavern.  “Why change the past when you can own this day?” she murmured under her breath, singing along to the invisible, but dreadful tune that the bard had composed for Sera.   Those were the only words she could properly remember, other than, “Sera was never... something something girl.”

“What?”  Blackwall stiffened.

“Ah,” the Inquisitor quickly pulled the razor away from the Warden’s chin, “what?”

“What did you just say?”

“Why change the past when you can own this day?” sang the Inquisitor. 

“Is that… is that the song Maryden composed for Sera?”  Blackwall burst out into a broad grin.  “Poor Maryden, she hasn’t got a chance with Sera.”

And the Inquisitor was completely caught off guard about how… different… that smile looked without the beard.  “Ah… uh…” She covered her lapse by turning her full attention once more on the last patch of hair.  It was at the base of his neck, and she stepped around him, and settled herself on his thigh again.  She placed one hand just under his jaw, to steady him and pull the skin taught, while she ran the blade over the glistening patch of oil.  A masterful stroke – and she was done.  She wiped the razor on the edge of the towel, set it behind her on the dresser, and then gently patted his skin dry with the rest of the towel. 

Perhaps she looked far too engrossed in her task, or perhaps she had patted too roughly, because Blackwall plucked the towel from her grasp and let it fall to the floor.  “Will it do?” he asked.

“I think it will,” said the Inquisitor.  She tried to keep the uncertainty from her voice.  “You can inspect my work if you like?”

But he simply shook his head.  “I’ve lived with this face all my life; I know what I look like without the beard.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t.”  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. 

“And now you do,” he replied quietly, staring at her with a strange sort of intensity.  “I think you’re about the first person in a long time to see me without it.”  He leaned in close. 

“Ah… am I?”  The Inquisitor couldn’t quite match his gaze.  So, instead, she gently placed her hands over his eyes.  She felt his eyelashes flutter against her palms, as well as the pull of his eyebrows in confusion.  She leaned back to look at him.  He was not so different.  Not really.  He looked younger without the beard, less like a kindly neighbor or a father.  More like… Well, he would always be swarthy, and Blackwall made no attempts at hiding that he would be a soldier through and through. 

On a whim, she pressed her cheek against his.  He sucked in a breath at the gentle touch, and then another as she gently rubbed their cheeks together.  His skin was warm, soft, and slightly damp.  He smelled of the elfroot bulb the oil was distilled from.  It was delightful.  The Inquisitor had never truly touched new bared skin in such a manner.  She drew back and removed her hand from Blackwall’s eyes.  “It is very smooth,” she commented, again thinking herself foolish and stupid for the words.  “I am utter rubbish,” she admitted loudly.  “The most rubbish of all rubbishmongers.”  And now feeling extra stupid, she could only stare lamely at Blackwall, who was looking at her with an expression that he probably reserved for stupid Grey Warden recruits.

“Who told you that,” Blackwall said, suddenly breaking out into a sly smile, “and where are they, so I can stick ‘em one in the mouth?  You’re not rubbish.” 

“I really am,” the Inquisitor said.  “I - ”

“I,” he interrupted, “think you are a marvelous woman.”

“And that should be all that matters to me?” she questioned.

“For the present?  Yes.” 

They stared at each other for several moments, saying nothing.  The Inquisitor placed her hands on the scars on Blackwall’s chest again before she leaned forward and placed a kiss on the tip of his chin.  She placed another on the underside of his jaw.  They were short kisses, too intimate to be chaste, but not so heated as to suggest impropriety.  He stiffened at the touch of her lips.

“My lady,” Blackwall whispered hoarsely, “I don’t know what you want from me, but whatever it is, I can’t give it.  I don’t have lands.  I don’t have money.  I don’t have a title.”

“If they mattered to me,” countered the Inquisitor, matching Blackwall stare for stare, “I wouldn’t be here.  What good are lands, money, and title when the world ends?  And how, after everything, could I go back to what was?”  She lifted her marked hand and raised it to her chest.  “I need strength,” she pleaded, “and honor and goodness.  The rest is just… grandstanding.”

“I’m not - ”

“No, you _are_ all of those things,” the Inquisitor insisted before he could dismiss her comments.  “You are - ”

She never got to finish.  Blackwall’s lips had turned to hers, silencing her in a way that his words would never be able to.  It was different from their kiss in the stables.  That kiss, which had almost come upon them by accident after she had carelessly tripped into him face first, their lips grazing sweetly as he steadied her around the waist.  She had smiled the rest of the day, as had he.  It was how she had known that he hadn’t simply tolerated her attentions or humored her requests to be polite. 

This kiss was different in all the right ways.  For one, it was intentional.  There was nothing accidental in the way his lips gently worked over hers.  Or in how he cradled the side of her face with one hand, while the other rested on her side, just below her breast.  A careless twitch of his fingers, and he would be grazing the under-swell.  There was also the fact that they had time to kiss now.  Unlike the stables, no one was likely to barge into Blackwall’s room unannounced.  And so this kiss lasted longer.  It was drawn out by the gentle sucking of her lower lip between his teeth, and the slow, sinuous dance of their tongues glazing over each other. 

The Inquisitor was warm all over.  Heat coiled low in her belly, and her breath hitched as he shifted, his thigh moving to jostle her groin and his hand slipping up enough so that his knuckles skirted against the bottoms of her breast.  It was enough to break the kiss and send the Inquisitor into a furious blush.  She liked him.  She liked him a lot. 

Her eyes fixated on a scar at the hollow of his throat.  And the same pain she had felt earlier at the sight of his wounded body hung heavy in her heart.  It swelled in her breast and threatened to burst from her.  “I want,” she said in a whisper, “for you to be happy.  And safe.  Maker knows I want you to be safe.  I want to protect you.”

“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”  He ducked his head to catch her eyes.  “Should I be protecting you, so you can protect the world?”

“You deserve happiness,” the Inquisitor insisted.

“I deserve a lot of things, my lady,” Blackwall agreed.  “But all things in time.”  He smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip.  “And I want you to know, whatever happens, you do make me happy.  I haven’t been this happy in… a long time.  I’ve never lacked for resolve, not really, but you’ve inspired me to greater purpose.”

“I… I have?”

He nodded.  “Aye, you have.”

“So, where does that leave us then?” asked the Inquisitor, barely above a whisper.  “You know I feel about you – I think I have an idea how you feel about me.”

Blackwall cradled her face in both his hands.  “Listen to me, my lady: I’m not worthy of you.  I’ll never be worthy of you.”

“It doesn’t change how I feel.  And that assessment is mine to make alone.  I can’t stop caring about you, or wanting your happiness, or - ”

She was silenced by yet another kiss – this one again different from the two before.  Where the first had been innocent, and the second had been tender, the third stole the breath from her lungs.  It was rough and hard, as if he was attempting to show her by deed what she would not believe in word – that the end of the day, he was a common man, with common needs, and there was nothing special or valorous about him.  If he was attempting to scare her away, he had miscalculated.  The Inquisitor curled a hand into his hair, while the other gently stroked the bare length of his jaw with her nails. 

He groaned into her mouth, shifting her so that her legs now straddled his waist.  She rubbed against him and the bulge slowly growing his trousers.  It was a slow, delicious burn that wormed its way through her body as she rocked her hips against him, the seam on her trousers angling just right.  From the way he hissed each time they connected, to the way his hands splayed passively over her hips and jaw, he had found a means to get under skin and into the recesses of her mind where only fantasy played.   The intimacy of this kiss, of this meeting, filled the hollow spaces in her belly and her ribs. 

There was no physical release, not in the true sense.  But the Inquisitor felt herself squirm and cry out, overcome with the sensation of _them_.  Her soul departed for a higher plane, tugging at her heart to follow it out of her body.  But her heart was firmly entrenched in her chest, beating rapidly in time with the ragged gasps of breath Blackwall released.   She hugged him tightly, leaning forward to cradle his head against her chest. 

“Please don’t ask me to go,” she whispered.  “Let me stay.  Even if you only consent to hold me.”

“I’m…” Blackwall’s reticent reply was soft, “My lady, I don’t think I can give you what you want.  But… whatever you want of me, whatever is left of me, it’s yours.”

“Then… I can stay?”

“Aye,” he nodded.  “You can stay.”

“And we’ll…”  The act – sex- hung between them.  It didn’t have to be about sex, but the Inquisitor was raw and aching, and she knew that poor Blackwall was as hard as a wall himself.

“We’ll take it one step at a time.”  Blackwall looked off to the door again.  His brow furrowed.  “I’d… well.  Maker knows you’re beautiful, my lady.  But I want to wait.  I want it – the circumstances, I mean -  to be… better.  I can’t just make love to you.  I have… there are things I need to do to make it right.”

“Oh.”  The Inquisitor blinked at the cagey response.  “That’s… that’s perfectly all right.  It isn’t just about that.  About sex.  There’s you.”  She gently rubbed his shoulder.  “And getting to know you.”  If she continued to rub his shoulder, she could polish the scar right off.  “And what you like.”

“And getting to know what you like,” he added with a warm smile. 

“And getting used to this new face.”  The Inquisitor drew close and pressed kisses along his jaw line and lips.  “I do like you without the beard.”

“The best part of the beard was that I’d get to smell you for days,” Blackwall said with a smirk.

The Inquisitor paused, considered his words, and flushed bright pink.  “Oh, my, I… is that… I hope I smell good.”  She paused again.  “I am rubbish.”

“You probably smell better than rubbish.”  Blackwall gently pinched at her hip, and then cupped his hand around her bottom.  He did the same with his other hand, before cradling her against his body and standing.  It was a short walk to the bed, and an even shorter job to pry off the Inquisitor’s winter boots.  He settled down on the edge of the bed next to her, and pulled off his own boots.  The Inquisitor gave him that much time before she was wrapping her arms around his midsection and kissing the scars on his neck.

“Where did you get this one?” she asked, lips working along a raised ridge.  “And this one?”

“Stories for another time,” he replied mildly.  “They’re tales for telling in a tavern, not for when I have a beautiful woman in bed with me.”

“You can ask me about my scars,” the Inquisitor said, giving a particularly gentle kiss to the crooked curve of a scar. 

“Maybe I will: over a pint.  But when you’re here with me, I don’t want to think about the war, or the things that have been done to you.”

“It’ll just be us,” agreed the Inquisitor, perched on her knees behind Blackwall, her cheek pressed against the back of his neck, the blue ribbon she had tied his hair with tickling her nose.  “You and me.  Nothing else.”

“Nothing else,” Blackwall agreed.   He gently laid back on the bed beside her, one arm stretched out in her direction.

The Inquisitor knew the invitation when she saw it.  She lowered herself down, her cheek resting on his shoulder.  Her hands curled up under her chin and she draped a leg casually over his.  Each breath she took rippled the hair on his chest, and she could see from her vantage how the hair thickened as it made its way down his stomach and into the waist of his trousers.  She flicked her gaze up to his profile.  “Your poor nose,” she murmured, noting again another painful memory, another broken thing.

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” he scolded gently, “he’ll be half way inside you if you give him the chance.”  And he shot her the dirtiest smirk that she would never have seen in such glory if he’s still been wearing the beard.

“Oh, Maker,” she murmured, shifting restlessly.  “I suppose I don’t feel bad for him, then.”

“Good.  Because I wouldn’t.  Lucky bastard.”  Turning on his side, Blackwall rested a gentle hand on the curve of the Inquisitor’s hip.  Despite the teasing words, his face had gone somber again.  “I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.  So… if you want to stop, you just tell me stop, and I will.”

The Inquisitor gave a small nod, her voice having retreated to the highest part of her throat, making it hard for her to both speak and breathe.  “What if I don’t want you to stop?”

“You’d be surprised.”  The hand on her hip gently pressed her back towards the mattress. 

Turned as she was, the Inquisitor became aware of Blackwall’s weight, particularly when he shifted and wedged himself between her legs.  His hips rested against the insides of her thighs while his hands flirted with the very edges of her shirt.  Hard, coarse fingers skirted along the Inquisitor’s stomach, and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle the burst of laughter.  The gentle touching continued and she shook all over with laughter, and felt Blackwall laughing too, if the gentle rumbling from above her and the shaking against her thighs was any indication.  He peeled away her shirt, letting the Inquisitor remove the rest, before he splayed his hands over her stomach and gently stroked the skin there.  He avoided her breast band entirely, and instead seemed interested in just touching what skin was presented to him.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, trailing his fingertips over her navel.  He did it again at the sudden squeak of laughter, and then a third time, only this time he covered her mouth with his and swallowed the laughter.  After that, the Inquisitor wasn’t laughing.  She was sighing as his fingers wiggled under the band of her trousers, and then under her smalls, to graze against her dewy curls.  “And…”

“Don’t say it,” the Inquisitor murmured, turning her face away from him.  “Maker, I’m…”  She was wet, and utter, utter rubbish.  Far too easy.

“Now, don’t _you_ say it.”  And as if to prove his point, or perhaps to stop her from making hers, he grazed a fingertip over her bud once, then again, and then a third time. 

It had the desired reaction.  The Inquisitor’s legs tensed against the mattress and her fingers curled into the bedding.  “M-maker,” she murmured.   Pleasure lanced through her core and she felt the slow throb inside her, the exquisite ache of fulfillment humming in her blood.  But Blackwall took his time, and seemed content to settle by her side and stroke his fingers along her slit, teasing her entrance before retreating, and rubbing against her pearl in the most maddening pattern.  It was all she could do not to impatiently twist her hips and steady his hand so that she could find release.  “Please,” she whispered, chest heaving below the breast binding.  She turned her face towards him, eyes shining brightly in pleasure.  “Please?”  she asked again.

“You only needed to ask me once,” he replied, leaning his face close to kiss her lips tenderly.  It took only a few short strokes before the Inquisitor unraveled at the seams, undone by the clever twisting and turning of her mortal coil.   Her heart beat rapidly in her chest and her hips bucked involuntarily as Blackwall’s fingers continued to pluck and play her. 

“That’s,” she panted, wincing, “I’m too,” she heaved a sigh, “so sensitive,” she ground out, twisting away.  She didn’t tell him to stop, so he continued to rub against her, his fingers slick with her.  Now on her side, one arm trapped beneath her while the other supported her weight, she was trapped.  Blackwall was right behind her, pressing her against him, even as he pressed his fingers against and into her.  He was wrapped around her, just as she wrapped around his fingers.  And if she didn’t hear the obscene sound of him inside her, she certainly felt it.   She also felt the press of his length against her backside.  But cognizant thought left her as he returned to the methodical rubbing of her bud, his body straining against her with each slow, sweet stroke.  She came sighing again into her forearm, her hips jerking back against his. 

Blackwall held her tightly as she came, letting her quench her fire by rocking hard on his fingers before slipping them away as her movements became jerky and erratic.  He placed the hand that had untied her strings flat against her lower belly.  His breath was hot and wet against the back of her neck, and he planted a kiss to the shell of her ear.  “Thank you,” he whispered gently.

“No, no, I should thank you,” protested the Inquisitor, though in her afterglow, there was no force to her words.  She gave a slow stretch of her cramped legs and squirmed to face him.  His blue eyes were as soft and warm as the guttering candle on the windowsill, and filled with the promise of comfort.  She slipped a hand between their bodies, cupping his hardness through his trousers.  The deep blue looked almost black as she gave him a gentle squeeze.  “Do I get to return the favor?” she asked gently, imagining what he would look like with his head thrown back, the column of his throat visible.

His response was to capture her hand in his and give a slow shake of his head.  “Not tonight.  There’ll be plenty of time for that.  For now, I’m getting my pleasure from watching you.” 

“Do you intend to watch me all night?”

“If you’ll let me, my lady.”

The Inquisitor leaned forward and drew him into a kiss, gliding her tongue over his as she settled deeper in his arms.  Her leg again found its way over his hips.  She ground against him and he ground against her in kind.  They played at love making as their candle burned low, sharing kisses and whispered promises as darkness embraced them.  Drowsy with lust and sated on this new found infatuation, the Inquisitor could not keep up the play for long.  She cradled his hips between her thighs, holding him close even as she apologized. 

“I want more,” she whispered, “I promise I’ll give you more.”

Blackwall’s response was to hold her tightly against his chest and stroke her back as she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, the Grey Warden badge settled in the hollow of the bed where Blackwall had slept all night, her heart sank and the cold ache of dread settled in her bones.  Now she understood. 

But it was time he understood, too.  She would make him understand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love May/December romances. And I do love that Broody Beard.


End file.
